


A House in a Storm

by heymacareyna



Category: Choices: Stories You Play, The Haunting of Braidwood Manor
Genre: F/F, Family Fluff, Flash Fic, Gen, Nightmares, Siblings, Slice of Life, Snapshots, Songfic, each snippet has a song lyric as a heading i'm so original, eleanor has some ptsd but who wouldn't honestly, short scenes, the younger waverley siblings come back bc dear lord why would anyone separate them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11610204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heymacareyna/pseuds/heymacareyna
Summary: Quick slice-of-life scenes after the canon story ends.





	A House in a Storm

  1. _late at night when you can’t fall asleep, I’ll be lying right beside you counting sheep_



“Mother, don’t—Simon! Simon, _no! Get off him!”_

The raw scream jolts you from your dreams. Something hits you in the temple. You bite back a yelp and, moving out of reach, squint through the darkness.

Slivers of blue moonlight gleam against the fair skin of your bedmate. Tossing and turning with violence, Eleanor sobs in her sleep. “No no no no no no…” Loose hair sticks to her tear-tracked cheeks and sweat-damp forehead.

Aching, you brush the strands from her skin and block the hand that flies at you again. You whisper her name, but she doesn’t hear, so you repeat it louder. Still nothing. You nudge her, and finally she flares awake. Before you know what’s happened, her hands fist in your sleepshirt and yank you close. You barely manage to keep from falling onto her. She pants, the breaths too fast and too shallow; her pulse races tangibly. Wrapping your arms around her, you press your cheek to hers and murmur reassuring nonsense.

After what feels like hours, she eases down from the terror. Her hands unclench to smooth out the fabric she’d wrinkled. Face averted, she touches her lips to your shoulder with a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” She’s still learning to open up, so you gently remind her, “I want to be here for you.”

Silence. Then: “Thank you.”

Not wanting to press her further, you tuck a finger under her chin, tilt her face up, and kiss her gently. She holds you, an expression of trust you cherish. Finally she leans back on her pillow. You stroke her hair until she falls asleep. The nightmares will return, perhaps… but so will you.

 

 

  1. _then you walk right through the doorway and tell me you’re here to stay_



Eleanor doesn’t say she’s unhappy. In fact, when you ask her, she assures you that she is in fact very happy to be here with you. And that part you don’t doubt… but you see the sorrow in her gaze when families pass, when children run down the street.

She says she is happy, and she is. A little.

But she will never be _completely_ happy. Not with a void where her siblings should be. And as each day passes, you fail to accomplish anything to fix it.

Even your reliable friend Google has no answers for you. Reincarnation, brushes with death, the light at the end of the tunnel, necromancy, Sims 4… no matter how you phrase your search, no answer fits. Eleanor sees you hurting, and you see her hurting, and because neither of you knows how to help the other, the pain only spirals.

So when you come home from class and find her wearing her old dress and meditating on the living room floor, you are understandably confused. “Uh…Elean—?”

Without opening her eyes, she holds up one hand to silence you. So you close your mouth and watch in bewilderment. Minutes pass, and once you figure out she’ll be here a while, you grab a snack from the kitchen and start on your homework.

Finally she emerges, looking better than she has since she left the manor. It takes you a moment to pinpoint _why_ —but it’s in her eyes. The aching burden has lifted from her. She smiles at you.

You can’t help but smile back. “What happened?”

“Meditating seems to help.” Eleanor sits and takes your hand in hers. “I _feel_ them.”

In memory? In spirit? Unsure how to interpret it, you chew the inside of your cheek. “In what way?”

She inhales deeply and looks upward, searching for the words. “They aren’t… here. Not the way we were. They went through, mostly, but…” She grimaces at her inability to explain. “I don’t know, they’re not really _there_ , not completely. It’s like they’re reaching back to me.”

“Like, talking?”

“No, more like an emotional… magnetism? I’m going to try again every day. If I can reach back, maybe I can…” She trails off, without specifying exactly what outcome she hoped for.

Dread clenches around your heart. They’re children. Of course they would want their oldest sibling. You both know she’ll do anything for her siblings. And if it came down to her choosing you or them, you wouldn’t come between the Waverleys. You can barely get out the words: “Do they… want you to go with them?”

Her eyes meet yours, and sadness touches her again. “I don’t know,” she whispers.

Your throat closes. Tears needle your eyes. You swallow hard, avert your gaze, and grit your teeth. _I will not cry. This isn’t about me._ Rather than betray your conflicted emotions by speaking, you nod, hoping it comes across as supportive and encouraging. You _want_ to be supportive and encouraging. You want Eleanor to be happy—but you want her to be happy with _you_ , damn it.

Abruptly you shove your chair back from the kitchen table. “I gotta go get something,” you mutter and flee to your bedroom—but no, it’s her bedroom too. You change course and hide in the bathroom instead. The click of the lock seems deafening.

Hiding your face in your hands, you huddle against the sink and try to muffle your anxious choking noises. You care about her so much; your whole chest aches for her to stay with you. But if she’d rather leave to be with her siblings, you have to let her go. But you don’t want her to _want_ to go. Your insides twist up; you’re pulled in two directions, so hard you feel like you’ll rip in half.

Despite your own misgivings, you can only hide from your girlfriend for so long. You splash your face with water and emerge to find her curled up on the couch, a mug of steaming chai in her hands. She looks at you with concern. “Are you okay?”

Every cell in your body screams for you to bottle your feelings and allow her to think you have no problem with her leaving as long as she’s happy. However, you know that both partners communicate in a healthy relationship, so you force yourself to acknowledge that you’re not all right. “I don’t want to lose you.”

With sorrow in her eyes, she caresses your arm in a comforting gesture. But she doesn’t tell you you won’t. “No matter what happens,” she tells you, earnest and quiet, “I will always want to be with you.”

That specific phrasing doesn’t comfort you. _Wanting to be_ is not the same as _being_.

She begins to meditate frequently, at any time of day. You ask questions after her sessions, and the more she tells you, the more you realize this isn’t about you. The hurt of feeling second-best fades in comparison to your empathy for separated siblings. If you had the opportunity to go to Jonathan…

Then one day you walk in the door and nearly collide with her. She’s wearing a serious look and a jacket over her old clothes. You meet her gaze. You don’t have to ask where she wants to go.

Snow still blankets the woods that hide Braidwood Manor from the rest of the world. You park carefully, wary of black ice—and of other unseen dangers. Now that Rose is gone, though, the manor no longer vibrates with invisible menace. Eleanor takes a deep breath, and then steps into the foyer.

You follow her into the parlor, the last place you saw the younger Waverleys. Despite the dust and dirt, she sits. You crouch beside her. You want to ask what she sees, what she feels, but don’t want to disrupt her. Eleanor closes her eyes and breathes, “They’re closest here.”

A tendril of warmth curls through the chill.

Silence falls, an unearthly silence. No old wood creaking, no wind whistling through the trees. Even the dust flecks seem to pause in the air. For seconds… minutes… hours…?

Though Eleanor makes no sound, tears streak down her cheeks. Her lips tremble. You hug yourself, trying to keep steady. _Don’t disturb her. She needs to do this on her own—even if it hurts to watch_. Your nails dig into your forearms.

But then, still weeping, she reaches for your hand.

Your heart lurches toward her. To lend her your strength, you interlace your fingers with hers and squeeze. The moment you touch her bare skin, visions flash before you, interposing her old memories over the decrepit present-day manor. People brush by. The air smells of velvet and ink and hot chocolate. Children giggle and talk over each other.

You can make out three distinct voices. They sound distant… but you can’t tell if they’re memories or spirits.

 _Eleanor_ , Clarissa pleads, _I can’t—I don’t know what to do_.

Simon’s small voice cracks. _I’m scared_.

 _We’re all scared_ , Thomas barks at him, his irritation contradicted by audible nervousness.

Eleanor whispers to them in a soothing tone, and you feel her gather them into her arms. _What do you want?_ she asks, even and empathetic. You expect her to drop your hand and spiritual connection for privacy, but she holds firm, keeping you a part of the family discussion.

The children consider the question. Simon is the first to answer. _I want us all to be together._

Clarissa and Thomas murmur in agreement.

 _I want that too,_ Eleanor tells them. _So where do you want to be? Here or there?_

The three younger Waverleys hush to conference with each other, too quiet for you to understand. You bite your lip and wait. Eleanor squeezes _your_ hand this time.

They’ve certainly earned their right to a happy ending, to the warm white light that hadn’t fully absorbed them the first time. You can’t begrudge them that. Eleanor deserves it most of all—and she will never be the same without her siblings. And as much as it may hurt… you realize you can let her go if going will bring her joy. Whatever they choose, you will support them. You will grieve if they leave, but you will survive. Acceptance settles on you like a blanket.

Clarissa returns first, with Simon and Thomas slinking behind her. She says nothing that you can hear, but Eleanor nods in understanding.

The room—both in this world and in her memory—fades to glowing white. She lifts into the air, her fingers still tangled in yours. You take a deep breath to steady yourself.

Her touch… fades into nothing.

Your hand closes on empty air.

An ugly sob rips from your throat. _She’s gone_. Still crouched on the floor, you pull your arm back and cradle it against your chest, allowing yourself to cry. They’re in a better place, but they’re _gone,_ all of them.

The old wooden floor creaks around you. Swiping the tears from your face, you look up, and—

Simon, solid in front of you and emotionally long past his limit, bursts into tears.

Clarissa all but rams into you for a hug. Thomas appears to be trying to choke Eleanor with the tightness of his hug.

You struggle to your feet and, dragging Clarissa with you, throw your arms around Eleanor. She holds you to herself with her free hand. Despite the presence of her siblings, you kiss her full on the lips.

“Sapphism must be even more sophisticated than I thought, if it lasts through all this,” Clarissa says, and unexpectedly you laugh through your tears.

All five of you stay clustered in a tight, weeping hug with no regard for time, until a sharp, biting wind blasts through a crack in the wall. Eleanor shivers. “Let’s go home,” she says, and your entire body warms back up at the realization that she thinks of your apartment, your life together, as home.

 

 

  1. _I wanna be your Ford Cortina, I will never rust_



Netflix is the family’s first lesson in screen technology. The Waverleys don’t understand why you need three remotes—frankly you’ve wondered the same thing yourself—but with some Post-It note labels, they gain autonomy over the TV. You all pile onto the couch to watch in the evening after dinner, and you’ve never enjoyed documentaries so much.

Simon, somehow, is the first to figure out your smartphone. In the morning you find him slouched over it at the table, focused completely on a science app that you definitely didn’t have installed yesterday.

 “Whatcha doing, bud?” You’re also curious as to when he learned your passcode, but one question at a time.

He barely glances at you. “Do you know how many species of insects have been discovered in the last century?”

You struggle to remember high-school biology. “Uh… no?”

“Me either,” he says, “so _shhh!”_

Smothering a surprised laugh, you move on to the fridge in search of breakfast. Clarissa joins you, her dark hair a mop of sleep-tangled curls. She barely manages to cover a huge yawn. Normally she’s up and chipper before you are, but last night she got special permission to finish a long History Channel special about Shakespeare, and now it shows. In response to your “good morning,” she mumbles, “Gumminnnin.”

“That’s what you get for staying up late,” you tease her.

Unimpressed, she jabs a mug at the coffee maker. She’ll have no problem fitting with modern teenagers.

After breakfast, the kids ask to go to the local park and enjoy the warm weather. While you and Eleanor sit on a bench to supervise, she asks for a cell phone tutorial. “I saw Simon earlier,” she admits with an abashed smile. “I think I should know how to use one too.”

“If it makes you feel better, kids always pick it up faster.” You walk her through the layout and icons, and let her know she can get a basic flip phone for herself instead of a smartphone if she wants.

Her brow crinkles with adorable determination. “No. I want to assimilate to your culture—I’ll learn how to use a smartphone.”

Once she’s figured that out, she moves on to cars. And when you try to put this off, you can _feel_ her glaring at your back. Your resistance lasts two days, which is better than you expected. She insists upon daily quizzing for the test to get her driving permit, and once she’s got her hands on that, you’re lucky to get _your_ hands on your own steering wheel. Anywhere you go, there she is, sliding into the driver’s seat with a prim look that dares you to challenge her on it.

As in every other area of her life, she follows the rules precisely. The other people on the road roar past her, refusing to follow a car going _exactly_ the speed limit. If you’re honest, you’d probably do the same if driving behind her. But from the passenger seat you sometimes catch yourself watching her in warm contentment—the focus always crinkling her brow, the frustrated purse of her lips when another driver doesn’t use their turn signal, the bright delight when she successfully parallel-parks for the first time.

You could watch her forever, in all her casual glory.

 

 

  1. _I’m not scared of dying, I’m only scared to live_



Eleanor twists Clarissa’s hair into place and pins the curls back. An elegant half-back style, reminiscent of the time period in which they grew up but without looking out of place. A gentle, if shadowed, smile touches Eleanor’s lips before she presses a tender kiss to her sister’s forehead. “All right. Go get your lunch from the kitchen.”

“No, it’s pizza day.” Clarissa grins. _“Pizza!_ I love this time!”

Even Thomas whoops from the bathroom in shared excitement. He’s taking twice as long to groom as usual because he has his first piano lesson after school and wants to look pristine.

The kids walk to the end of the driveway, and you and Eleanor watch through the window until the school bus picks them up. You leave soon after that for the day’s classes, and since hers don’t start until the afternoon, she stays home to schedule Simon’s entomology study at the zoo next week.

As soon as Clarissa and Simon come through the door that afternoon, Clarissa waves a paper in your face. “I have a _free verse_ poetry assignment!” she complains. “What am I supposed to do with _free verse?”_

“Pretty much anything you want,” you say with a laugh.

This is apparently the wrong answer. “I thought my writing classes would be easy!”

Eleanor’s eyebrow quirks with her small but definitely snarky smile. “And here _I_ was under the impression you were there to learn more about writing.”

Your jaw drops. “Is that… _sass_ I hear?”

She presses her lips together, but she can’t hide her smile. Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. “I’m simply trying to adapt to modern emotional conventions,” she manages primly. Then, at your cackle, she begins to laugh. Out loud.

Clarissa huffs. “How unhelpful.” She flounces out of the kitchen, presumably to attempt free verse in solitude.

You tug Eleanor toward you with a grin. “You always surprise me.”

To your delight, she beams—a full, bright, utterly happy smile. “I plan to be spontaneous at least once a week.”

You laugh. “I don’t think that counts.”

She laughs too, the sound gentle but full. “If you don’t know when it will be, it seems spontaneous to _you_. That makes it at least half spontaneous altogether.”

Despite the questionable mathematics of that reasoning, you don’t argue with her on it. It’s enough to see her so pleased with herself and so open with her emotions. She deserves to be open, and free, and 100 percent herself. She deserves to feel safe enough to lower her guard.

You hope to one day deserve _her_.

 

 

  1. _you're the home my heart searched for so long_



“Okay, okay. We’re really going to bed now.” You give Eleanor a mock-stern look, as if it’s her fault you have no self-control. In return she gives you a calmly amused, knowing smile.  “Shut up,” you say, although she said nothing.

After you flick off the lamplight, you flop onto your back beside her, her body warm and heavy beside yours. You shift to close the gap between you. Your shoulder bumps against hers. When her hip touches yours, you purr. _I’ll never take physical contact for granted._

The quiet lasts maybe thirty seconds before, to your surprise, she says, “Do you think we can adopt a cat?”

Nothing in your lease prohibits pets. “Sure,” you say, “if I can name it.”

You can all but _hear_ her eyes narrow. “Why,” she asks suspiciously.

“I never got to name my family’s pets,” you say, all innocence. “I just want to experience the… exhilaration.”

She goes silent. After a moment of consideration, she translates, “You’d go power-mad, wouldn’t you?”

You grin in the darkness.

She sighs. “What would you even name it?”

“Chairman Meow?” you suggest immediately. “The Great Catsby? My Shoes? Hey Asshole?”

To your delight, she begins to laugh. “No,” she says, “absolutely not”—but her breath catches, and she _snorts_. Her hands fly up to cover her nose and mouth, but it’s too late. Now you’re giggling too. It’s not even that funny, but it’s the middle of the night and you’re both shaking with keening laughter, slaphappy and ridiculous, and you don’t have to analyze this to love it.

You love her laugh, the way she forgets to be proper. After a century trapped in a hellish limbo, she deserves it. You love her strength, her patience, her near-impossible capacity for forgiveness. You love her weight beside you, and her dedication to the people she cares about.

You love _her_.

And your whole being seems to click into place when you realize it.

 

 

  1. _just one touch of your love is enough to knock me off my feet all week_



Relaxing on the couch, you trace circles on Eleanor’s thigh. You decided very quickly that you love her in modern clothes—not only does she look smoking hot, but it also provides easier access to her curves, her skin. You graze your fingertips lightly and see her shiver. You grin and do it again. Blushing, she whispers your name in both a complaint and a request.

Her wish is your command.

You shift so that her legs part to cradle you, and you kiss her, one hand slipping underneath her shirt to curve over her hip. She lays her hands on your cheeks and holds you to her, opens her mouth to you. The gentle movement sizzles hot in your abdomen. When she rocks her hips against you, a needy noise chokes from your throat.

Pressing her back against the couch cushions, you move your open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat, over her shoulder. She writhes under you in pleasure. Your hand wanders lower… but she catches your fingers and brings them back to more innocent places.

“The children,” she whispers, sounding regretful.

You sigh. She’s right; they’ll be home from school soon. “Rain check,” you promise.

With a smile she draws you in for another kiss.

 

 

  1. _sip each second, drink it slowly, watch the hours melt away_



Winds whip the trees, clattering bare branches against the windows and siding. The building creaks. You balance three mugs as you walk to the living room, where Eleanor is helping her siblings build a giant blanket nest. The couches and chairs have lost their cushions to the effort as well.

She turns and smiles at you. “Excellent. Are they cool enough to drink?”

With a nod, you hand Clarissa her chai latte. She wafts the scents of the spices. “It smells delicious,” she declares.

Thomas takes his tea from you almost gruffly. He thanks you and promptly returns to his cushy architecture. Simon, on the other hand, lingers. He won’t even take the mug, but hugs you tightly. When he shows no sign of letting go, you set down his mug and crouch to embrace him. Thunder shakes the house and his hands.

“Hey, it’s okay.” You hum soothingly. “It’s just a storm. We’re safe inside.” You pull back to look over the blanket nest with approval. “And this looks so comfy! You guys are doing great!”

Eleanor kneels beside you and scoops him up for a follow-up hug. “So brave.” She blows a kiss on his cheek and is rewarded with a smile.

“Is everyone getting a raspberry?” Thomas asks dryly. “’Cause if so, I’m outta here.”

“It’s called _affection,”_ Clarissa says with the haughtiness perfected by older sisters.

Once Simon has calmed, you hand him his cider and return to the kitchen for the remaining two mugs. Eleanor has nestled herself in the center of the blanket/pillow pile, with Simon snuggled into her side, Clarissa stretching out beside her, and Thomas perched begrudgingly on a couch cushion framing them. She reaches out and takes her steaming mug from you. “Thank you, darling.”

As the thunderstorm rages outside, the five of you nestle warm and cozy inside in a comfortable silence while you all nurse your drinks. The soft lamplight is a gentle ambience to the evening. Simon dozes off first, then Clarissa, then Thomas (who snores in adorably tiny little squeals). Eleanor looks at you with sleepy, happy eyes and interlaces her fingers with yours. You give a drowsy smile in return.

You fall asleep snuggled in the beautiful mess of your family.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. "late at night when you can’t fall asleep, I’ll be lying right beside you counting sheep" - Vance Joy, "Fire and the Flood"
> 
> 2\. "then you walk right through the doorway and tell me you’re here to stay" - The Airborne Toxic Event, "The Storm"
> 
> 3\. "I wanna be your Ford Cortina, I will never rust" - Arctic Monkeys, "I Wanna Be Yours"
> 
> 4\. "I'm not scared of dying, I'm only scared to live" - Hey Ocean!, "Give" 
> 
> 5\. "you're the home my heart searched for so long" - Dana Glover, "It Is You (I Have Loved)"
> 
> 6\. "just one touch of your love is enough to knock me off my feet all week" - Little Mix, "Touch"
> 
> 7\. "sip each second, drink it slowly, watch the hours melt away" - Marian Hill, "Lips"


End file.
